


The Flip Side

by snapslikethis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: if they lived au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapslikethis/pseuds/snapslikethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Potters had found themselves on the flip side of the prophecy, and Neville had been The Chosen One? They might have had their chance at happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deadly Stairs and Rumors

1 Nov 1981

 

**6:05pm**

It’s a crisp, biting cold. They don’t have a proper coat for Harry, so he’s sure to get sick again, but Lily, frankly, doesn’t give a damn about the risk. They _can_ go out in the street and take a walk around the square, so they do. James holds her hand as she pushes the pram-the one they’d been given and have only really used inside. It’s awkward, pushing it one handed, but they manage. She breathes in a deep, intoxicating breath because they are outside and waving to their neighbors, because the air is cool and refreshing in her lungs, because it’s over.

_It’s over._

* * *

**8:15am  
** She wakes up to shattering glass and a swearing husband. Heart racing, wand in hand, she runs into the hall, tripping over her baggy flannels, which she still calls his but in reality confiscated from him sometime in seventh year.

Lily surveys James: long limbs sprawled on the stairs, glasses knocked clean off his face, covered in eggs and tea. She’d been up all night with a fussy, feverish toddler and James-her sweet husband-must have been bringing her breakfast in bed.

Had been, he tells her as she straightens his glasses on his face, until he’d noticed the _Prophet_ headline and stumbled on the stairs, dropping the bloody tray.

* * *

**8:30am**  
They stay on the stairs, backs against the knobby spindles, hands intertwined, digesting every word.

The cat is breakfasting on tea and sausage and eggs; they pay him no mind.

Their attention is instead focused on the _Prophet’s_ front page, which boasts, simply, _You-Know-Who Is Dead_. Really, it’s a full page spread with very little to substantiate such a claim: only spotty details, inconsistent reports, and-what stops their hearts-a line about the Longbottoms.

Such a detail wouldn’t register as the important thing for most people, but for them, the Potters, the other half of the damned prophecy that had halted all their lives, the flip side of the same coin, it means everything.

They don’t dare believe it.

* * *

**9:13am  
** Harry has woken up and is still fussy and clingy, although his fever seems to have broken.

They take turns walking the usual circuit around the house to keep him calm. They are grateful for the distraction, really, but it can only keep the need to know what’s happening at bay for so long.

 _Have you heard_? An owl comes from Emmaline, telling them what she’s heard: that Frank and Alice are dead, that Voldemort is gone, but adding, hastily, that these are just rumours. She wanted them to know, but she hasn’t heard from anyone else-she means Dumbledore, they know-to make sure it’s true.

It’s the limbo, the _not bloody knowing_ that’s eating their stomachs from the inside out.

* * *

**10:35am**

As she does every morning, Bathilda stops by with biscuits for Harry.

She hasn’t heard from Dumbledore, either.

Lily scrambles to make tea.

Harry sits on Bathilda’s lap, munching happily away at the tray of biscuits left untouched by the adults.

* * *

**11:52am**

WWN is full of speculation, but it’s chaos; everyone is celebrating but no one knows what’s actually happened.

James wants to leave and find out for himself, but he _can’t_ because it might not be true and what a damn foolish risk to take.

Sirius shows and stems off the impending row. He’s been there, he’s seen it all, and he tells them every horrible detail.

The ruins of the little cabin they’d been hiding away in. Neville, rounder than Harry, bloodied forehead but _alive,_ wrapped in Hagrid’s arms. His grandmum-solid, stately, domineering Augusta Longbottom- broken on the floor, weeping over her dead, heroic children.

Frank and Alice are dead.

The cost is terrible, it’s too high, and Lily reels.

Frank and Alice can’t be gone.

Frank, who stepped on her toes at the wedding and Alice, who twice saved her life.

 _Three times_ , Lily corrects herself. _Alice has now saved her life three times_.

She lets the horror of it wash over her.

She will never smile that sweet smile again, and Frank will never belt out his obnoxious, boisterous laugh again. They are gone, their comrades and their friends, and it rips her apart.

And there’s this: Lily hates herself for being relieved that it isn’t _the_ _Potters_ in the Prophet this morning.

_It’s over._

* * *

**1:30pm**

After lunch, a quiet affair in the sitting room, Sirius leaves to go check on Peter, to track down Remus. They’ll be back for supper, he tells them, and she tells him to bring whiskey.

Harry ate a solid lunch and he settles into a deep, contented sleep.

James is holding her hand as they stand against the cot. She’s not sure he’s let go since this morning, actually, but she’s not complaining. They stare at him, this piece of them, their breathing, alive, bundle of energy and love they have been trying so desperately to save.

_Harry._

They haven’t spoken yet, but they don’t need to. Shock is slowly, by degrees, giving way to relief. Their new reality is setting in.

_It’s over._

* * *

**2:15pm**

They don’t make it to the bed, taking each other instead hard and fast and glorious against the door. She feels like she’s seventeen again, and he is intoxicating, as always. He tastes like salt and peppermint tea and freedom.

They sink to the floor, finished for now, adrenaline still pumping, and the dam within Lily finally bursts.

Throughout all of this, these last two years-she’s cried only a handful of times, the last of which was when Dumbledore himself came to tell her about Marlene. Now, though, she cannot stop. She doesn’t want to.

He holds her, runs his hand up and down her back. Her shoulder is soon wet with his tears.

It’s unhurried this time, on the floor, tender and sweet. They’re giving, rather than taking, pouring all they’ve got into this moment. Gradually, kiss by kiss, whisper by whisper, everything aching inside Lily unfurls into a peaceful, satiated calm. They drift to sleep where they are, half dressed, a tangle of limbs and tear streaked faces, curled together on their bedroom floor.

* * *

**5:25pm**

She wakes up to the sound of Harry’s happy chatter, which is drifting from his room across the hall. She untangles herself from her sleeping husband, reluctantly lets go of his hand, and goes to Harry.

_Harry is safe._

_It’s over._

It’s over, but it feels an awfully lot like the flip side to another coin. The end of the war; the new beginning for them that she’d long hoped for but didn’t really believe would come true.

They can move into a bigger house, though she doubts they will because, despite everything, this has become _home._

They can travel now that it would be a holiday rather than an escape. She wonders if they could pull Christmas in France.

She’ll surprise James with Cup tickets for next summer. They can go camping-Harry would like that.

* * *

**5:50pm**

James comes into the kitchen, kisses his wife, scoops up Harry from his spot on the floor and blows a raspberry onto his belly.

Lily puts a casserole in the oven and tells him the boys probably won’t be here for an hour or more.

He asks her what she wants to do, and she knows they’ve come to the same conclusion:

 _It’s over. Our lives are reordered. We are free_. _We can do whatever we want_.

They decide to go for a walk.


	2. Broomsticks and Little Sisters

15 AUG 1984

 

“Muuuummmmyyyyy, that baby has my broomstick again!”

Lily closed her eyes and steadied herself against the stove. She took a deep breath.

_Twenty sodding seconds of peace to put bread in the oven, was that too much to ask?_

Yes, apparently.

Another deep breath.

She plastered a smile on her face and stepped into the hall.

“Now, Harry darling,” she said, careful to keep her tone even, “‘that baby’ is your sister and you shouldn’t be cross with her—” but her  speech was interrupted by the baby in question, who zoomed through the hall, cackling, swerved as Lily lunged for her, and crashed headlong into the door. She fell to the floor heavy thump and burst into tears. Lily scooped the heaving, squirming mess into her arms and set her on a hip.

“There’s a girl,” she soothed, “it’s alright, Mummy’s got you.”

Harry snatched the broomstick off the floor and glared at the baby on Lily’s hip. “No, Sissy. This is MY broomstick.”

“Harry. You were given a brand new big boy broomstick not two weeks ago for your birthday.”

“Yes, Mummy, but this one’s mine, too!”

And it was his. Of course it was his. Lily knew he slept with it, even though it’d been too small for months. Still, he was four, and able to learn a thing or two about sharing.

No little boy needs  _two_  broomsticks, at least not 100% of the time.

James may say otherwise, of course, but James was at a match with Padfoot, and she was home with their children. They were rebelling against her, and it didn’t much matter to her at the moment  _what_ James would think about the broomstick business later.

Deep breath.

“Harry, you can’t have them both.” She waved her free hand in the air. “Well, you can _,_ but you  _ought_  to let your sister borrow the old one.”

“No!”

She attempted authoritative: “Harry James Potter, you don’t get to tell me ‘no’.”

“But it’s  _my_  broomstick, mum. My Very First Broomstick!”

She set the baby, who’d stopped fussing the moment she’d been picked up on the ground, Levitating the shoes and umbrella stand. Not that the baby would _do_ anything with the stand, or the shoes, exactly, but she  _could._ She and James thought Harry had been a rambunctious toddler, but they’d only been lulled into a false sense of security. This little girl managed to get into mischief her brother could only dream of.

Constant Vigilance. Never had Moody’s advice been more applicable to her life, she thought, with a wry sense of irony.

Lily knelt down and beckoned for Harry, who was clutching his broomstick for dear life, to come closer. He did, but only incrementally, eying his sister warily. With good reason, for she made a lunge for the broomstick and he jumped back.

“NO, Sissy!”

“Harry, don’t yell at your sister.” _Deep_ breath.  _He’s_   _four. It’s his first broomstick._ “I know that it’s yours, darling, but Sissy  _can_  ride it sometimes.”

“But—”

“No buts, Harry.” There was the stern voice she’d been trying for earlier. _“_ Now you know that I would never,  _ever_  take your broomstick away permanently, but if I need to confiscate it to remind you that people— _yes, even little sisters_ —are more important than broomsticks— _yes, even Very First Broomsticks_ —then I will.”

“Mummy, please don’t combenskade my broomstick away from me,” Harry begged, and his eyes—her eyes—started to water; her resolve nearly crumbled. 

Fitting, after all the times she laughed at James for saying that her eyes were his greatest weakness, that they would be played back on her. Stay _firm_.

“You’ve _got_  to share.”

“What if she breaks it?” A valid question.

“Harry, if your broomstick can survive you, it can survive Mag—”

But Maggie’s cackle interrupted her speech. They watched Mary toddle toward the stairs, which had been charmed with a barrier to prevent her entry, bounce against it with all her might, and fall to the floor with a giggle.

Lily reinforced the charm.

“Mummy, Maggie can break  _anything_ ,” he said, staring at her with a dubious sense of wonder.

“I know, darling, but magic can fix it, if she breaks it. Did you know I didn’t have magic as a kid?”

“You didn’t?”

“No! We grew up without magic, so we had different things instead. It’s called being a muggle, if you don’t have a wand.” 

“People don’t have wands?”

“I didn’t get mine until I was eleven. Didn’t know I was a witch until I was 9.”

“How did you play?” 

“Same as you; just different. We moved our own chess pieces. Watched the tele sometimes. We listened to granddad’s records, just like I do now.”

 “Did you have a broomstick?”

“I did, but it didn’t fly. It was only good for sweeping the floor. Can you believe that?”

“That’s mad, Mummy!”

“I know—”

They were interrupted by an inhuman shriek, and Lily played a two-second version of  _cat_ or  _baby_ until she crossed the threshold into the sitting room. 

 _Ah._ Both.

She tugged her toddler’s legs gently, extracting the baby, centimeter by centimeter from under the sofa. She carefully pried the cat loose from her daughter’s sticky, chubby fingers. Good thing she was adorable.

“No, Sissie,” Harry demanded. “Leave him alone.”

Harry had stopped tugging on the cat’s tail and started coming to his defense at precisely the moment that his sister took over the job of resident cat-torturer. As a result, he’d become something like Harry’s reluctant best mate. He didn’t trust Harry, exactly—too much history for that. He preferred the big ones, or to be alone, but if it was a choice between the small ones, he more or less knew that Harry was a safer bet. Harry would protect him—most of the time—by swatting the other one away.

“No, Sissy, you can’t hurt him,” his tone was softer this time. She let it slide.

“Your bother’s right, Maggie, you cannot hurt the cat. Be gentle.”

She couldn’t demonstrate this, however, because Harry was clutching both his broomstick  _and_ the cat very tightly, trying valiantly to keep them out of his sister’s grasp. Points for trying.

“Harry, do you think you’re ready to let her use your broomstick?”

“Aw, Mummy, right now? Do I have to?”

The broomstick whizzed from Harry’s hand towards Maggie. Lily intercepted it, to keep it from knocking the baby in the face. The shoes and umbrella she’d left Levitating in the hallway collapsed—she’d forgotten about them.

“Sissy,” Harry stomped, “you can’t use your magic against my broomstick!”

“Harry, love, she didn’t  _mean_  to. She’s not going to bre—” Lily stopped short before she made a promise she couldn’t keep. Changing tactics, she said, “I’ll keep her in the kitchen with me, so you and the cat can have some space to play chess. I’m finishing up your favorite.”

The cat—James’s poor, poor cat—was dropped to the ground with an indelicate thud. He tried to scramble away, but Harry got him by the scruff of the neck.

“Gentle, love,” Lily directed, and levitated the chess set off the top of the bookshelf onto the rug. Her shelves were a sorry state—anything important was stacked three deep on the top shelves; the bottom shelves had toys; and the Rebuffing Charm had been put up after Maggie had tried to climb them.

“Mummy, just make sure she doesn’t break my broomstick, alright?”

“Sure thing, darling.”

She barricaded herself in the kitchen.

At this age, Harry would’ve sat near the counter and helped her stir.

One day Lily knew she’d teach Maggie to bake, just as she had Harry, but today was not that day. Instead, she set the baby, broomstick in hand, to the floor and pulled the bread from the oven.

She could scrape the burnt bits off the bottom. 

* * *

 _It’s amazing how much a cup of tea can help one’s perspective_ , though Lily with a smile.

That, and nap time.

Harry was in that horrid in-between stage, where he ought to take a nap if he wasn’t going to be a terror after supper, but this—Sissy’s nape time—had become _their_ special time. So, she let it slide most days.

They’d played chess—she’d been trounced in chess, by her four year old, which she wasn’t going to tell anyone about if she could help it. They’d read a chapter of  _The Hobbit,_ and Harry had asked a hundred questions about Elves. 

They were ‘sneaking’ biscuits at the kitchen table, currently.

Perhaps they’d go for a walk when Maggie woke up. Pay Bathilda a visit.

“Mummy,” said Harry, crumbs falling from the corner of his mouth, “I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I think maybe Sissy can have my broomstick.”

“Your Very First Broomstick? You’re sure?”

“Mhmm.”

“Quite?”

An addendum, “I’d still want to sleep with it, Mummy.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable.”

“But she could use it sometimes.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“An’ we could let her think it was hers, ‘Cept when Rambo wants to ride it.”

“Darling, I don’t think the cat wants to ride your broomstick—”

“No, Mum, he really likes it!”

Before she dared investigate that claim, however, the front door burst open and Sirius came bounding into the kitchen.

“Darling, we’re home!” he said, one hand held behind his back. The other grabbed for a biscuit. She swatted him away.

“Hello, Padfoot. Where’s my husband?”

Harry jumped from the table and gave his uncle a running leap. He straddled Harry on a hip and, still, kept the other hand behind his back. Sirius opened his mouth, and Harry shoved a biscuit in.

“What are you lot up to?” she asked. “Where’s James?”

“He’s getting the baby.”

“What? No!”

Too late. He was bouncing down the stairs with a tired, happy baby. Daddy’s girl through and through, that one.

“She  _just_ went down an hour ago,” Lily moaned.

“She’ll be alright,” James said, “You’re going out with Mary tonight anyway.”

“I forgot about that!”  _Thank Merlin. “_ Why did you wake her though?”

“Hey, Mate!” James said to Harry, giving him a high-five and ruffing his hair. He leaned over and gave Lily a  _non-apologetic_  apologetic kiss on her cheek before explaining,

“We got her something—Maggie.”

“What could you possibly have—”

And she laughed, because it was fitting, given the afternoon, that Sirius would pull his arm from behind his back to reveal a brand new toy broomstick.


	3. Slicing Jinxes and Peter Pan

Oct 1986

Lily is sprawled under a cozy blanket on the sofa, reveling in the quiet afternoon she's been afforded. She ought to be doing a hundred things, really, but moments like these are rare; she's determined to appreciate this one. Two children—two and a half, she supposes—have ironically and unfortunately robbed her of the ability to nap on demand, so she's opted for a novel, an old favorite, so she won't be upset when she is inevitably interrupted.

She's with Bilbo, her favorite reluctant thief, in a cavernous storeroom squashing doubtful, desperate dwarves into barrels when the front door bursts open, slamming against the wall, startling her back to reality. A cold draft gusts through the open doorway, bringing with it several crunchy, fallen leaves and her boisterous six-year-old.

He charges in and skids to a stop in the foyer, just short of the stairs. Cupping both hands 'round his mouth, he shouts for her, only to notice her immediately, before she can voice a response. Target spotted, he runs full speed toward the sofa.

"Ssssh, darling," she reprimands, "your sister's still asleep."

She's not particularly angry though: one glance at the clock on the mantle tells her it's nearly time to wake Maggie, else bedtime will be a nightmare for James. She tosses the book aside and sits up, quickly, to get out of Harry's way. Not a moment too soon, either, because he takes a running leap from four paces away and bounces onto the cushion next to her, landing with an oomph—the force knocking the sofa backward against the wall. She pulls him into a tight hug.

"If she's sleeping, Mummy," says Harry matter-of-factly, pulling out of their hug to look at her, "then you should put the muffler charms up.  _DUH_."

"Or, Harry," counters Lily, "you might try  _not_ shouting at the top of your lungs when you first run in the door." She frames his face with her hands, tucking the wayward strands out of his eyes with her fingers.

"That's no fun, Mum," dismisses Harry, shaking his head.

"She's right, mate, no shouting," adds James from doorway, who has, apparently, just caught up to his son. She and James were seemingly  _always_ lagging behind Harry, who made it a habit to run, full stop, everywhere he went. James's arms are laden with several grocers' sacks, and he shifts them as he speaks to Harry, "Also, mate. I heard this door slam from Bathilda's gate."

Harry does not particularly like correction, Lily knows, even her and James's mild version which consists more of stern looks than any actual yelling. He squirms uncomfortably on her lap at his dad's expectant gaze, ears turning pink. Still, he acknowledges the point with a nod and a mumbled apology. They assure him that it's quite all right, remind him to be careful next time, and neither of them begrudge him when he quickly changes the subject by asking her, "Oi, Mum! Guess what's happening next week?"

"Hmmmm," she ponders. "I don't know, what?"

"You've got to _guess,_ Mum," says Harry, immediately brightening. " _Honestly_."

James laughs, kicking the door shut behind him. He mouths  _Halloween_ to her—Harry, back turned to his Dad now, can't see—before heading to the kitchen, presumably to unload groceries. Lily redirects her attention to Harry, who is now looking at  _her_  expectantly. "Christmas?"

"No!" wails Harry, incredulous. He pleads, "C'mon, Mum, guess  _for real_."

She shifts their positions around, rearranging limbs so the circulation to her leg can resume. More comfortable, she taps her chin with a finger, pursing her lips, furrowing her brow, pretending to be deep in thought. "Your birthday?"

"Mum, that was ages ago! You got me tickets to the cup. Remember?"

"Oh, next week are match finals, right?"

" _Two months_  ago, Mum. You were there!"

"Of  _course_  they did. Good thing I've got you to keep me in line, darling."

"Are you out of guesses?" asks Harry, eager to get on with it.

"I suppose so. You'd better just tell me."

"HALLOWEEN!" he shouts, and he's  _so_  enthusiastic she can't bring herself to reprimand him again.

"C'mon," he says, leaping to the floor. "Come and see what dad and me got." She allows herself to be pulled off the sofa by her son's Herculean strength and subsequently led into the kitchen.

James has started unloading groceries...notably, two large pumpkins sitting on the table. They are considerably larger than her still growing stomach, and they oughtn't to have fit inside the grocery sacks propped open beside them. She grinned satisfactorily at her own cleverness...extendable charms on their shopping bags had been Lily's admittedly brilliant idea; they just had to be discreet whilst loading groceries.

"Pumpkins, hmm?" Lily asks, reaching her arms around her husband's neck.

"Thought the kids would like them," says James before leaning down to kiss her hullo.

They ignore the gagging noises their son feel s compelled to make every time they kiss in front of him.

"How was your nap?" he asks, when they've properly said hullo.

She shakes her head. "No nap."

He frowns at her, concerned. "Still nauseous?"

"No, just couldn't sleep. I'm alright."

"Good, because we brought you a pack of those little scones you love so much," he says, nodding toward the table behind her.

She pecks his cheek in thanks before disentangling herself, turning round to root amongst the bags. He crosses his harms, feigning hurt, "Spurned for a sweet. I see how it is."

"Every time, James, not sure why you'd be surprised now? You  _are_  my favourite though...you know that."

"I do know that, actually, but it was Harry's idea, not mine."

Lily finds them buried beneath the bunch of bananas. The box is a little dented, sure, but they'll taste the same. She pulls out a chair.

Harry pipes up, "It was Dad's idea, Mum, but I did say you'd probably like it."

"Mate," says James conspiratorially to his son. "If it was your idea—the scones, I mean _—_ you mum would feel obligated to  _share_ with you."

"Oi, right," Comprehension dawning, Harry turns to his mother with wide eyes. "It was totally my idea, Mummy, because I love you so much. May I please have one?"

She laughs at their double act, and James winks at her behind Harry's back. "C'mere then, darling, there's plenty to share. We can watch your dad unload the groceries."

Harry switches seats so he is next to Lily rather than across from her, and she offers a scone. He greedily pops it into his mouth whole. "Wegesheshoowarrveehm."

"Swallow, love, and try again."

He knocks on the pumpkin. "We getto carve 'em , and Dad said I could use his wand!"

"He  _what?"_ she bursts out, mouth full or not, and stares incredulously husband.

"Awe, c'mon, Mum," says Harry, pleading. "You let me use  _your_  wand all the time."

"For charms and shields, darling, not  _slicing jinxes_."

"I'm  _really_ good at them already, though, we practiced at Uncle Padfoot's before coming home."

"Sssh, mate," says James, who's taken refuge inside the ice box. "That was a  _secret."_

She looked at her husband, who peeked over the open door and had the good grace to look sheepish. She wants to be angry that he'd had taught Harry a slicing jinx—a  _slicing jinx,_ which is so bloody reckless—but this was the sort of thing they'd come to a consensus on years before: if their kids were curious about spells, for the most part, it was best for them to learn it safely under their parents' instruction than try it on their own with a nicked wand and get seriously hurt.

Harry  _knew_ they existed, slicing jinxes, saw his parents doing them all the time in the kitchen. Still, he could've told her about it first.

"Mummy, please..." begs Harry, oblivious to his mother's inner monologue, "knives are so  _boring."_

"I never thought I'd hear a six year old say  _that_ ," she says wryly at her son.

She's smiling, and Harry thinks that his charm is working. He dials it up a notch, widening his eyes and delivering his sweetest, earnest expression. "Please, mummy?"

She's already made up her mind, really, but if her son thinks he could manipulate her giving him his own way, she'll make him work for it. "Oh, no, Harry James Potter. You can't use my own eyes against me... those only work against your dad. Nice try though."

So he changes tactics, and she watches him with fascination. He ruffs his hair—that bit's unconscious—and pouts. He's  _forgotten_ something, though she doesn't know what, when James nudges him gently and gives a meaningful look.

That seems to jar Harry's memory and he says, "Oh yeah! Mum, we'll be extra special safe." He puts his hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear."

There it is. If she hadn't already made up her mind— _that,_ in combination with the ruffling hair business, would've worked.

Damn them both.

"You can use your dad's wand for slicing jinxes, Harry," she confirms, but is quick to lay down the rules. "But  _only_  on pumpkins, and  _only_  for tonight, and  _only_ if Dad is right next to you, alright? If you do well, you can try it again when we're making supper one night next week, yeah?"

Harry nods, a wide grin splitting his face, and he holds his hand out for a high five.

"You," she says to James, "are in charge of any mishaps. Please don't sever a limb, yeah?" He mirror's Harry's grin, and she knows she never stood a chance. "I'm out tonight, remember—supper with the girls. Might as well call the boys here, make a party of it."

"Already did," smirks James, and laughs.

"Wicked cool." He turns to his dad, "Can I have my own bottle of butterbeer?"

But before his dad can answer, though, a sleepy three year old Maggie wanders into the kitchen and heads for her mother's lap.

She's intercepted by James, who scoops her up and plants kisses on her cheek. "Hullo, darling. Have a good nap?" She does not answer, resting her head on his shoulder, but the pumpkins catch her eye and she points to them. "Punkin?"

"Mmmhmm," answers James, nodding. "D'you want to carve a pumpkin tonight? You can use a knife... _maybe..._ we'll see. Don't think you'll fit inside one this year, though. And Uncle Padfoot's coming over, and so is Uncle Remus, and..."

Lily smiles at her husband prattling at her daughter, and Harry, who is devouring her scones.

* * *

 

The carved pumpkins—a cheerful, traditional jack-o-lantern for Maggie, and for Harry, several jagged lines that Lily guessed, somewhat miraculously, to be a snitch—stare down at her from the fireplace mantle. The cat is perched on her lap, eyeing them suspiciously.

"Harry couldn't bear for them to be outside," explains James. He hands her a spiced cider and settles on the sofa next to her. "He was worried they'd be cold and terribly lonely on the front stoop."

"How'd it go?" 

She'd returned from dinner an hour or so ago, but the boys have just left, and they are cuddling before turning in for bed. She was sorry to have missed it—the pumpkin carving—but she's five months into what's been a brutal pregnancy, nausea wise, and she wasn't sure her fickle constitution could gracefully handle a table full of pumpkin guts.

"Brilliant. No limbs were sliced. Not even any near misses," he assures her. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. Didn't mean for Harry to ambush you like that... It was a spur of the moment thing—Padfoot's idea, actually, and I couldn't tell him no..."

"Sirius? Or Harry?"

"Both," admitted James, and Lily giggles. James is a big softie, really, hates to let people down, Sirius, especially, and Harry...well...he has his mother's eyes, and he knows how to use them.

"It's alright, I worked that bit out. But speaking of being ambushed..."

"That's never a good start to a conversation, Evans, just so you know..."

"I know, but this is something I've been thinking about for weeks."

She doesn't continue, though, and James has to nudge her with his knee to get her to start, "I was thinking...that maybe we should let the kids dress up this year, take them 'round the village. Celebrate Halloween a bit." She breaks off, not able to say anymore because, really, it's a heavy subject for them both.

She's not sure what James's reaction will be, but she knows it's not for him to agree with her. Still, that's exactly what he does. "I've been thinking about that, too, honestly."

"You have?"

"Yeah. I know we'd talked about it, and said 'no' when he was younger...with their deaths, and it could've been  _us,_ and it feels so wrong to celebrate... But he's growing up, and it's not his fault—" James pauses, unsure how to continue, but he finds his voice in the end. "It's not his fault it's such an awful day for  _us_. Harry begged us so much last year. We can remember, but we can't stay on hold forever, or deny him happy memories… "

"It's just, when I think about it all—"

"I know, love. I know." Her tears come, like they always do, even five years later. He pulls her into a hug, into himself, stroking her hair.

After her tears have subsided, she says quietly, "I want to go to the memorial."

" _Of course_ we will... _after,_ but we can have fun, too, for the kids. That's what Bathilda was asking me about this afternoon. She'd love to see them..."

"It sounds like plan then. I think they serve cider in the square."

She kisses his shoulder, turning in his arms to face the fire. They sit in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

* * *

 

Having declined the invitation to join James and Maggie for a mid-morning walk, Lily and Harry are home alone. Though they ate breakfast an hour ago, she wants more scones, so she invites Harry into the kitchen for a treat. He munches happily on a scone and some biscuits he'd managed to wheedle from her. His legs swing under him, occasionally bumping hers, and she decides to tell him now.

She's anticipating his excitement, yes, but more to the point, she's rubbish with secrets.

"What do you want to be for Halloween this year, darling?"

"What d'you mean, Mum?"

"As a costume, silly. Halloween's in six days."

Harry only stares at her blankly though, so she feels the need to elaborate. "Well, do you want to go trick-or-treating or not? You've been begging for two years…"

"TRICK-OR-TREATING? WE GET TO GO TRICK OR TREATING?" He jumps from his chair, knocking it backward, and dances a victory dance around the table, stopping to give her a high five.

"A Quidditch player. DEFINITELY a Quidditch player," Harry informs her as he struggles to right his chair. He manages in the end, though, and sits back down.

She winces...she'd been afraid of this. "Oh, well...you can't be a Quidditch player, love."

"Why not?" demands Harry. He slumps in his chair, dejected.

"Because trick-or-treating is going to muggle houses, love, and they don't have Quidditch, so they won't know what you are, and we can't  _tell_  them, because—"

"—being magic is a secret," Harry finishes dully, pulling a face and rolling his eyes, though a stern look from his mum squelches the face. This bit—the magic is a secret and we cannot tell the muggles bit—is a serious business, and one of the rare instances when they don't give Harry any wiggle room.

"What's Maggie going to be, then?" he asks, hoping to change the subject.

"She too young to know. I'm going to take her to a costume shop and let her pick."

"Probably a cat."

"Most likely, yes. D'you want to come with?"

"The shops full of muggle clothes? Mum, we've been there _,_ it's really boring."

"No, Harry, it's an entire shop full of muggle costumes, not their regular clothes, like Peter Pan, and—"

"Peter Pan!" interjects Harry. "I want to be Peter pan! Can you do a levitating charm on me when we go trick or treating?"

"Or—"

He backtracks. "No, wait, I want to be Captain Hook. Can Dad transfigure my hand into a hook?"

"Erm,  _no._ "

Harry looks dejected—again—and this isn't going nearly as well as she hoped. "It'll have to be a muggle costume, love. Just for trick-or-treating. But we can do all the magic we want back at home—Dad'll transfigure your hand, or I'll levitate you, whatever you want..."

"Thanks, Mummy," says Harry, reassured. He prompts for another high five.

They munch on their sweets in silence, and Harry has his thinking face on. He's a smart boy, Harry, and she's been waiting for him to work it out. "Oi, but it's  _Halloween_."

There it is.

"Yes, it is."

"It's a very serious thing, Halloween, yes?"

"It still is, Harry, but—"

"Because of the war, and Neville's mum 'n dad, and the memory thing every year..."

"The memorial, love. And we will go, but it's not until later. Dad and I decided there was no harm in taking you out beforehand, so long as you can remember to be respectful when we get to the memorial."

"I can, Mum. I know it's really impordant. Will Neville be there?"

"At the memorial service? 'Course he will."

"Will Ron?"

"You know, I don't know. They weren't there last year. I can send an owl to ask Molly...why? You know you boys can't play together at the service..."

"I know, Mum, but I wondered if they could come overnight."

"Oh, I don't know, Harry. It's—"

"C'mon, Mum, please? His Gran would let him, I bet. But could you please be the one to ask her because that bird on her hat  _moved_ once—" He breaks off, realizing he was getting off topic, and changed course. "We'll have loads of fun, Mum. And we'll b really good."

She looks doubtfully at her son.

He crosses his hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear."

"Harry James Potter. You can _not_  just say that and expect to get your way."

"Mummy, please," he whinges. "Can you please just ask? It was a marauder promise, Mummy...that means you've  _got_ to mean it. And can we get three costumes, one for me and one for Ron and one for Neville?"

"I don't know, love, let's see if they can come first."

"You mean you're going to ask?"

It could be a wonderful tradition, actually: family trick-or-treating before, the memorial service, then the little boys over after for a sleepover.

"I suppose I can write to Molly and Augusta—that's Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Longbottom to you, young man—but no cross eyes if they say no. deal?"

"Deal."

He does another victory dance around the table, ending in a high-five to seal the deal.

"Alright now," she prompts, gesturing to his chair. "Hop up and finish those biscuits before your sister gets back. We'll go to the costume shop this afternoon."


	4. Christmas Pudding and Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Lily visit his parents for Christmas. Baby Harry causes drama he knows nothing about.

25 Dec 1980

 

James landed on his knee with a bone-cracking thud, a large stack of presents tumbling out of his arms and onto the flagstone hearth.

“Don’t want to say I told you so, Potter,” said his wife sweetly, “but if you’d have listened to me and taken two trips, you might’ve avoided just this scenario.”

Preoccupied as Lily was brushing soot off the wriggling mass of blankets in her arms, she missed the scowl he aimed at the back of her head.

Wincing, James clambered to his feet. He’d just started to tell her off for being smug when a set of claws dug into his abdomen, rendering him mute.

“That’d be the cat?” guessed Lily. He responded with an inhuman yelp.

The family cat he’d—unwisely, apparently—stowed inside his cloak for safe keeping dropped to the floor. Doubled-over in the fireplace, James watched as Elvendork scurried between Lily’s legs before taking refuge behind a set of heavy velvet drapes.

His wife had the gall to laugh at him. “I do have to tell you so, actually, as it was you who insisted we use Floo.”

“I didn’t want to,” he corrected, “but we didn’t have any better alternatives.” Hard to know which hurt worse, really—his knee, his stomach, or his ego.

She turned to him, grinning, although her smile dropped to a frown when she surveyed her reflection in the mirror. “Damn, I’m covered in ash.”

Karma, _that_.

His turn to smirk. “Don’t want to say I told you so, Potter”—he ducked out of the fireplace—“but if you’d have listened to me and worn your cloak,”—stripped off his own soot-covered cloak, tossing it over the back of a squashy reading chair,—“you might’ve avoided just this scenario,” and pointed to his immaculate jumper.

Lily stuck both her tongue and her bundle of blankets out at him. He tugged off the topmost bit of fabric to reveal their smiling, dark-haired, chubby-cheeked baby.

“Your stowaway fared better than mine.”

“I didn’t try to keep him under my cloak.”

“Fair point.”

“We could’ve taken broomsticks.”

James, distracted with pulling silly faces at Harry, shook his head. “Too wriggly.”

“The cat or the baby?”

“Both,” he clarified, and then he burst into a violent sneeze. Harry, startled, stopped squirming in his mum’s arms. He stared warily at his father, unsure if he ought to burst into laughter or tears. As James sneezed again, deliberately and with wildly exaggerated features, Harry rewarded him with a loud peal of laughter.

Harry lost interest after the fourth sneeze, turning instead to babble at the chandelier. James racked his brain, trying to pick up their lost conversation thread.

Lily prompted: “Broomsticks.”

“Right! We could’ve driven.”

“Three hours—with him?”

“The cat or the baby?”

She nodded at the cat, who was now beneath the chair and glaring at them with—if possible—more disdain than usual. “He sicks up something terrible while driving.”

James rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t count—everyone sicks up on the motorbike.”

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” asked Lily. “Harry wouldn’t have made it this far without falling to pieces. Neither would the car, come to think of it.”

He chuckled, knowing her parents’ dilapidated Cortina, which Lily had insisted they keep, if only to prevent Vernon selling it and pocketing the proceeds, had served more useful as an adventurous place to fuck than a legitimate mode of transport.

“My vote was for Apparition,” she said “which you voted down.” He watched amused as she struggled to pry Harry’s vice-like grip off her necklace.

“No way. Mum would’ve murdered us for endangering the wellbeing of her precious, darling, baby boy.”

“Take care, my love,” said Lily sagely. “That savors strongly of bitterness.”

“She would!” he said, indignant.

“Not what I meant. She would never murder me…she loves me. She wouldn’t murdered you, either. Not on Christmas.”

“No, but if she were angry enough,” he shuddered, “she would withhold her Christmas pudding.”

“There it is. Never come between James and his dessert.”  

She handed him a babbling Harry and began properly cleaning her jumper. Much to Harry’s delight, James made a game of tossing him a foot or so in the air before catching him. Throwing him a bit higher every time made it fun for James, too, and Harry didn’t seem to mind it.

Except Lily said, “Saw that!” when James tossed Harry a bit too high and he nearly banged his head on the low-hanging chandelier, and he decided to stop.

Damn.

Bringing Harry to eye level, he mustered his best McGonagall impression and said gravely, “Mate, I hope you know the sacrifices your dad makes for you. You are the only person on earth I’d use a bloody fireplace for. Clearly, I love you more than Mummy does. She wanted to bring you here on a nasty, cold broomstick, or risk splitting you in half, or let the cat sick up all over you. I wanted to keep you safe, you see—”

Harry, oblivious, swiped for his father’s glasses, and James straightened his arms to keep his little fists out of reach.

Lily cleared her throat, and he turned to face her. She’d magicked the presents into a neat, floating stack. “Harry, darling,” she cooed, and the baby twisted in James’s arms to smile at her. “Let’s go find Gran and Popop before your father can tell you any more wicked, rotten lies about me.”

Just then, his own beaming mother came in through the doorway, moving faster than he’d seen her going in months.

“Fleamont, they’re in the library!” she called down the hall, and to them, she said, “I knew I heard voices! We were expecting you at the front door, dears.”

James straightened proudly. “Didn’t want to Apparate with the baby, Mum—Splinching, you know. And it’s too cold for the long walk down the lane.” He paused, expectant for his mum’s praise over his forethought.

She had the gall to laugh at him. “You worry too much, darling. We Apparated with you when you were Harry’s age.”

He opened his mouth to express his wounded pride in the form of manufactured outrage at her carelessness, but Lily spoke first. “Oh, you know James, Effie,” said his traitorous wife to his neglectful mother, “more cautious than what’s good for him these days. We didn’t want to startle you by coming straight into the drawing room.”

“Quite thoughtful of you, Lily, dear. Merry Christmas.”

His mother pulled his wife into a hug, kissing her cheek, and then she turned to him with open arms.

“And there’s my boy.”

Forgiven, then. He’d survived childhood, after all, hadn’t he? Tucking Harry into one arm, he extended the other to receive her hug, even slouching down a bit so she could reach him with minimal difficulty. This proved unnecessary, however, as she barely kissed his cheek before pulling away with his son tucked securely in her arms.

“Traitor,” James mumbled both to his son—smiling that irresistible one-toothed, gummy grin at his grandmother—and his mum—chattering animatedly to her grandson in high-pitched tones.

They left the room without a backward glance. Elvendork, who preferred his mother to all other humans, trailed close behind.

He sighed.

“Difficult, isn’t it?” said Lily, patting his shoulder.

“Don’t what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” She stepped forward and stood on her toes, kissing his cheek. “All the same, best to say it, get it out of your system before we go out there.”

He tried to feign ignorance, but Lily levelled her favorite ‘I’m onto you, Potter’ look at him. _Fine_.

“Fine,” he said, “they don’t love me anymore.”

Though she was obviously amused by this admission, she had grace enough to keep from laughing. He loved her for that.

“They do love you.”

He shook his head, adamant. “Clearly, she only loved me for my ability to produce an heir.” Lily brow furrowed dangerously, and he corrected course. “The heir you produced. You did all the producing bits…that’s not the point. You know what I mean.”

“I do. And you’re wrong. They _do_ love you.”                                                                                                                      

“They removed my portrait,” he reminded her, “and replaced it with Harry’s. They bumped my place at the table with—”

“—Harry’s. I know.”

“Yes!” While he’d had fully intended to stop there, he found all the tiny annoyances he’d been enduring for the last five months and stoically keeping to himself spilling forth. “She hasn’t given me a proper hello in months!” he whined, “And they’re always distracted—it’s milking a Manticore to carry on anything like a conversation with either of them when Harry’s around.” Cathartic, really, even if he sounded like a prat. “And you know, last weekend I counted seventeen presents under that Christmas tree. All for him. It’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?”

“It’s ridiculous, all right,” said Lily darkly, “because you despised that portrait of yourself. And they moved it to the upstairs hallway, not burned it in the fireplace, James. _And_ the one they commissioned for Harry is so fantastic that you asked for the artist’s name.”

He shrugged noncommittally.

“She’s coming to ours next Tuesday!”

This was a matter of pride, and he refused to give her satisfaction.

She was undeterred. “You complain after every Sunday supper that she fusses over you too much, so let’s call a spade and scratch that off your list of grievances, yes?”

“I haven’t got a list.”

She ignored him, plowing on with her logic filled counter-assault: “When was the last sensible, coherent, uninterrupted conversation you and I had together?”

“Right now.”

“When Harry was around?”

He had here there. “Fine. What about the presents?”

“When we get home, d’you want me to count the presents under the tree addressed ‘To: Mate, From: Dada’?”

Twenty-three, by his last count, and she knew he knew it, and he knew she knew, and so on, and so forth. He balked at her. “That’s different, Lily, he’s our child. Our only child, mind, who we are supposed to love unconditionally and spoil. Forever.”

“Just because you aren’t their sole reason for living anymore, James Potter, doesn’t mean your parents don’t love you.”

“I know they love me,” he reasoned. “It’s just—they don’t love me _best_.”

She covered her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. “So you’re jealous, then.”

What a baseless accusation—absurd. “I am not!”

“I only have to say ‘Michael Stebbins’, and you—see, you just tensed up there, and it was sixth year. It’s—I know your tells. Trust me. I know when you’re jealous.”

He had here there, too. _Damn_.

“I’m jealous?” he asked, sincerely, and she nodded, still trying to squelch a smile.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen. James Potter, brought down by a five month old.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug. “Let’s just…be grateful they’re here to spoil him the way they’ve clearly spoiled you, yeah?”

He—of sodding course he was grateful his parents were here; Pox had nearly done them in. “I am! It’s just…my fall from grace stings a bit, is all.”

Her laughter finally burst forth, and she had to clutch his shoulders for support as she muffled laughter into his jumper.

“Done laughing at me, yeah?”

“No. I was remembering last Sunday—your attempts to re-win your dear mum’s affections through terrible flattery.”

Warmth flooded his cheeks. James feigned ignorance—a tactic he immediately regretted, for she launched into a horrifically dead-on imitation of his voice: “’Mum, did you dye your hair again? It’s an exquisite shade of grey this week.’ ‘The silver is especially shiny—did you do that, or have Flubby do it?’ ‘That opal in your necklace really brings out the green flecks in your eyes, Mum.’ ‘Your new draperies are really, truly charming.’ The worst was when you said her complexion had improved.”

“That was more an observation than flattery—the green tinge _is_ almost gone.”

“If I ever get Dragon Pox, Potter, I forbid you to mention my complexion.” She pulled him down and kissed his cheek. “You’re as talented as flattery as you are at pulling.”

“I won your affections, didn’t I?”

“Says more about me than it does about you.”

“That you’ve excellent taste in men, clearly.”

“Yes, and you’re still my favorite.”

“Liar,” teased James, pinching her hip again. “He’s my favorite, too. He’s everyone’s favorite, and he’s bloody fantastic. It’s just—”

“—a tiny bit frustrating that you aren’t their sole reason for living anymore?”

“Mhm,” he mumbled into her hairline.

“If it makes you feel any better, they’ve loved me better than you for years.”

“They can’t help that—you’re fantastic, too.”

“I am indeed. And I’ve come to a fantastic decision: Harry isn’t going to be an only child.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I’m going to be the father to this one, too?”

“Prat.

“What prompted this decision, dare I ask?”

“It would be appalling,” said Lily, self-satisfied as she delivered her joke, “to let him grow up and be as spoiled as you’ve been.”

It wasn’t untrue, was it? “Sounds like a plan. Not now though…right?”

She nodded.

He pulled her flush against him. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still have fun now,” he murmured into her ear, reveling in the way she trembled, “like New Years’, seventh year…”

“How could I forget? We’ve made—some _excellent_ memories, every New Years’ since. Right there on that desk, actually.”

“And that chai—” he said, remembering last year, but she cut him off with a fierce snog.

He forgot everything in the world but her, because why reminisce when they could reenact? Except better, now they knew what they were doing. As their third snog turned into a fourth, his foggy brain registered that they were alone. Very alone. He picked her up and walked forward; when his knees bumped the desk, he set her down with an ungracious thud.

She giggled madly into his shoulder, and his knee smarted, but they recovered quickly. Neither having the patience for pretense, barely a minute had passed before she had a hand down his unfastened trousers and he had one up her skirt, toying with her knickers.

His mum chose this inopportune moment to rush back through the door. “Are you two comi—“ she said, and then, “Oh!” before turning in place and averting her gaze.

James cursed into Lily’s hair as she groaned into his shoulder. They broke apart. He backed away, zipping and buttoning his trousers. She closed her legs primly, crossing her ankles, right over left.

“Sorry, Mum, you can turn ’round now.”

She did as bidden, and James saw her face was contorted with repressed laughter. She waved a dismissive hand at them; they visibly relaxed. “I ought’ve known better, after every New Years’ party, to knock when you two are shut away in here.”

He exchanged an alarmed glance with Lily. “You know about that?”

“Please,” his mother scolded, though there was no real anger in her voice, “You didn’t fool me then, the pair of you, and you don’t now.”

“Glad we can drop the pretense that you aren’t having relations.”

”Sodding hell, Mum!” Good to know where he inherited his tactlessness from, then.

“Well, you do have a child together, no sense pretending otherwise,” she said briskly. “I didn’t come up here to catch you in the act…I realized, James, that I neglected to give you a proper hello.”

“Oh, well, that’s not worth fussing about,” lied James.

Lily fought to disguise her laugh with a cough.

His mother surveyed him shrewdly. He tried to keep from fidgeting with his hair, his signature tell.

It didn’t work.

She gave an apologetic glance to his wife. “Lily, dear, would you mind—” but Lily had already hopped off the desk, smoothing down her skirt with what little dignity she could muster.

“I’ll leave you two be,” she said, and picking up her wand from the floor, and muttering a ‘good luck’ to the room in general, she levitated the presents back into the air.

The door closed behind her with an ominous click.

His mother indicated the paired armchairs by the fireplace. James hastily tugged his dirty cloak off the chair before taking his seat.

“Where’s Harry?” he asked conversationally.

“I left him unattended by the fire,” his mother assured him.

“Sharp knives in reach, I hope?” he countered, mirroring her grin, feeling incredibly grateful that deflecting awkward situations with inappropriate humor was another trait he’d inherited from her.

She nodded. “My wand, too, in case the knives weren’t enough.”

“Oh, well, _good_.”

“He’s actually with Sirius and your father.”

“Padfoot’s here?” Which shouldn’t have surprised him, really, because—

“It’s Christmas.”

Except, “He didn’t mention it.”

“He said he hasn’t seen you much, lately,” said his mother neutrally, “I think he misses you.”

He frowned, bemused.

“When was the last time the pair of you went out?” she asked in her Lesson-with-a-capital-L voice.

“His birthday.” Had it really been that long? “Hm.”

“Easy to lose your head a bit when you’ve got a new baby around to fuss over, yes?” An apology.

Nodding, he said, “He’s a brilliant baby, Mum. I get his appeal—besides the nappy and drool, of course.” Apology accepted.

Glad they understood each other, grateful they’d cleared that up, James started to rise from his chair.

She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Buggering bloody _hell_.

“You don’t really think I love him more than I love you, do you?”

He tugged at his collar, suddenly very uncomfortable. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Mu-um—” Complaining to Lily was one thing, but he’d no interest in hashing this out with his sweet, elderly mother.

She would have none of it. “I’ve heard your muttering when you thought I couldn’t hear you, James Potter. We’re going to have a Moment, here, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us.”

Us—not just him. He noticed how tensely she gripped her armrest. Perhaps he’d inherited his discomfort with this sort of thing from her as well. Perhaps this could be a very short Moment.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, steeling himself. “Fire away.”

She exhaled deeply. “You were my baby first, James… And Harry is yours. And…I didn’t think I’d be here to see him—” her voice waivered, then broke off entirely.

He worried for a horrifically long moment that she might cry.

Just then, Elvendork jumped onto the top of her chair, purring at her shoulder, managing somehow to comfort his mother and judge him at the same time. He understood, in that glare, that he was an absolute prick—the sort who was unconsciously jealous of his children and despised his family cat and made his mother cry at family holidays. He’d force himself to forgo the pudding, just for the shame of it. In the end, his valiant mother—knowing what was at stake, perhaps—mastered herself.

“I love him so much,” she continued, her voice dangerously wobbly as she artfully avoiding eye contact, “in part because he reminds me of you. I waited so long for you, you know. And…you are an excellent father. I’m so proud of you. There. I’m done.”

“Well, thank you,” said James, touched, despite his best efforts not to be. “You are an excellent mum, Mum,” he offered, and meant it. “And a terrific grandmother. Everything good I learned about being a parent? That comes from you and Dad. Harry is damned lucky to have you. As am I.”

Her tears began in earnest, now, though she offered a watery smile, conveying he wasn’t a soulless bastard unworthy of her Christmas pudding.

He handed her his handkerchief, considerately looking away as she dabbed at the corner of each eye.

He pleaded: “Can we stop having our Moment now?”

“Yes,” breathed his mother, sounding just as relieved as he felt. “I made you your own batch of Christmas pudding, you know, to make up for neglecting you so terribly, while I doted on your baby.”

“Bribery,” considered James, “nice touch.”

She nodded proudly. He stood and pulled her into a hug. “I love you, Mum.”

“I love you too, darling.”

“Can I have pudding before supper?” he asked hopefully after the embrace ended.

She patted his stomach, laughing. “Not a chance. Help an old woman down to the parlor, please?”

He offered his elbow, bending down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll let you give a small bite to Harry.”

“Bribery?”

“I learned from the best, didn’t I?”

“Deal.”


	5. Semantics and Insubordination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James receive a disciplinary owl about “there’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ professor."

September 1996

Lily spat out the sip she’d just taken, spraying both the letter she’d been reading and the edge of James’s newspaper with flecks of tea. He folded the corner down and stared at her, equal parts disgusted and curious.

“News from Hogwarts, dear?”

“Our smart-arsed child, is all,” said Lily, though he saw her desperately trying to suppress a smirk.

“What’d he say this time?”

Lily read from the parchment Hedwig had just delivered. “‘There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.’”

“Which teacher?” asked James, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice, because who else would it be?

Lily looked at him pointedly. “The only one he’d mouth off like that to.”

“Tell me again, in what universe did Dumbledore decide it would be a good idea to let that…git,”—James settled for the least offensive name he could think of—“become a teacher at that school?”

“An alternate universe, apparently, where we all live happily ever after. Except Snape.” Lily frowned for a moment. “When we got Harry’s first letter, it wasn’t me who paid a visit Dumbledore’s office and kindly asked him to explain his staffing choices.”

“And he wouldn’t provide me an answer.”

Lily shrugged. “He wouldn’t give me one either, if I asked. And I haven’t spoken to Snape in twenty years, so I don’t why you think I’d know.”

“Does that Howler you sent him count?” asked James, fondly recalling the tersely worded message Lily had spouted off when Snivellus had made that comment about Hermione’s teeth.

“No,” said Lily, who couldn’t repress her grin.

“You could ask Batty.”

“Don’t use that nickname,” chided Lily, “it’s cruel.”

“So is inflicting Sniv—” James saw Lily’s eyebrows raise and redirected. “—him, on children.”

Lily didn’t respond, and James knew why—she couldn’t disagree. They’d heard from other parents, even Hagrid, how unfair he’d been to most of the students. And Harry, being their son—his son, particularly—was a special case. He squashed down any feelings of guilt. There wasn’t anything he could do to make it better for Harry. Except—

“You’re not going to punish him, are you?” James asked, trying to keep his tone impassive.

She shook her head. “I might eat his biscuits from Bathilda before sending his package on, but that’s it.”

James visibly relaxed.

“What, you think I’d send Harry a Howler?”

“No.”

“Snape gave him detention,” she read on, “I’m sure that was punishment enough for them both.”

“I’m sure the git deserved it.”

“What?”

“Not Harry,” said James. “Snape, and I’m sure he deserved Harry’s sass.”

“Well, yeah. Harry wouldn’t have mouthed off unprovoked.”

James smirked at this. Lily, sassiest when provoked, was speaking from personal experience. “He gets his sass from you, you know.”

“From me? Harry got his sass from me the way I got my fantastic tits from my great-Uncle Philon.”

James looked at her pointedly.

“Point taken. He gets his snark from me, that’s different.”

“Semantics, Evans.”

“Fine,” said Lily, rolling her eyes. “He gets his sass from you.”

“I know, and I’m damn proud of him. He shouldn’t take that shit lying down.”

“No, but he can’t go mouthing off.”

James shrugged. “McGonagall will set him straight, if he steps too far out of line.”

She laughed, knowing he spoke on good authority.

“It’s a good line, though. Wish I’d thought of it.”

“You would.”

“Admit it.”

“Fine.” Lily cracked a smile. “It is a brilliant line.”

“Can we send him chocolates?” asked James.

Lily thought for a moment. “No, but we can send our share of Bathilda’s biscuits before sending off the package.”

James nodded, satisfied. “Do you reckon Snape’ll send another one of those official ‘Hogwarts Disciplinary Notices’ again?”

“Tell you what,” said Lily, taking a sip of tea. “If he does, you can burn it this time.”


	6. Cartography and a Talent for Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of his first day at Hogwarts, Harry learns of the existence of the Marauder’s Map.

31 Aug 1991

 

They’d been trying to one-up each other, his parents, as to who was more mischievous and would therefore take credit for the first spot of trouble Harry would surely get into. He, Harry, didn’t have _any_ intention of getting into trouble—not in his first week, anyway—but between Mum’s “smart mouth” and Dad’s “talent for trouble” it seemed he might not have much choice in the matter. 

 “Oi, Harry,” Mum said, grabbing his attention from across the table. “ _I_ got into a fair bit of mischief in my Hogwarts days too, you know.”

“Nothing compared to us, though, Evans,” Padfoot said, so sure of himself that Harry didn’t believe anyone would dare contradict him. Except Mum. Uncle Sirius _always_ sounded sure of himself, though, and he always called Harry’s Mum ‘Evans’ when he wanted to get her goat.

“I didn’t have as many detentions as you lot, true,” Mum said, sipping her drink, which Harry was definitely _not_ allowed to sample, “but that only means I was intelligent enough to escape detection.”

Uncle Remus snorted and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “February, sixth year.”

A moment of collective silence, and then his father and uncles burst into laughter. Uncle Pete had tears streaming down his face, and Moony pounded the table with his fist. Padfoot nearly fell backwards off his chair.

He felt like he’d traveled in a Police Box through a weird time-space rift, and everything was just a little bit… _off_. They—he, his parents, and his uncles—were gathered ’round the Potters’ kitchen table eating Harry’s going away cake with forks, straight from the pan. Crumbs and bottles littered the table; he’d been allowed _three_ Butterbeers. Mum had sent to bed like usual, along with his sisters, but his Dad had let him come back down, once they were asleep. He’d been allowed to stay up so late, it was nearly tomorrow.

All because he was going to Hogwarts in less than twelve hours.

“That was _one_ incident, thank you very much, Mister Lupin.” She sounded as prim as Aunt Petunia, but saying as much might get him sent to bed.

James looked at Harry gravely. “You’ll be shocked to know, Mate, that your deviant mother served eight detentions in her sixth year for attempting putting fireworks in Greenhouse Four. Nearly cost her her swotty Prefect’s badge.”

“Your dad is telling gross, exaggerated lies, Harry, and he’s neglecting to mention that he the one who landed us knee deep in manure, quite unable to escape.” She grinned at Harry’s dad. “You served those eight detentions right alongside me, no?”

“I did indeed. And _that’s_ where you fell in love with me, isn’t it?” Dad replied, a wide, lazy grin splitting his face.

Harry was grateful for his Uncles’ presence and the table, because that grin usually preceded a snog.

“Ah yes,” she said wistfully, “scrubbing bedpans. Terribly romantic.”

“Not _that_ ,” his father said, casting a meaningful look at her, “the _other_ thing—”

“ _What_ other thing?” Harry asked loudly, but his mother turned read, and ignored his question.

“Well, I suppose I did fall in love with you then,” she said, and looked around the table. “What about Halloween, then, gentlemen. Seventh year? You’ve got to admit that was impressive, no?”

They did this sometimes—his parents and uncles—the five of them talking at once, or going back and forth faster than Dudley’s computer game. Harry hardly knew what they were going on about, but did his best to keep up, even if it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

“That—that was _you_?” Wormy asked.

His mum nodded proudly, as if she were showing off a rare batch of biscuits that hadn’t got the bottoms burnt.

The Marauders—his uncles, and father—stared at each other in stunned silence, recalling whatever it was that had happened on Halloween, seventh year, before starting another round of laughter, even louder than before.

Harry took advantage of their distraction and fetched another Butterbeer.

“That _was_ impressive,” Dad admitted, once they’d calmed down, “but if it’s a matter of being impressive, the Map takes all.”

Mum’s forehead wrinkled. “All right,” she conceded, “the Map _was_ impressive.”

“What map?” Harry asked. The table erupted around him.

“ _What_ Map?” Wormy said, disbelieving, “‘What Map?’ he asks.

Dad groaned, “I am a _failure_ as a parent. I have utterly failed you, Mate.”

Moony and Mum both asked, “We’ve never told you?”

Padfoot muttered “sodding fuck” under his breath, but Harry still heard him.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Prongs, calling yourself a Marauder,” Uncle Pete said.

Indignation swelled in Harry on his father’s behalf—impugning a Marauder’s honor was grounds for a duel. But when Harry looked to his dad, to offer his sympathy, and to offer his services as a second, now he had a wand, he was hunched over, his head hung in shame.

“Your father and his mates, Harry,” Mum began, but a chorus of objections cut her off.

“The map was a _Marauder_ endeavor, Evans,” Uncle Sirius said, “and a Marauder legacy, and this is a Marauder disgrace.” He scowled at Dad. “Let Prongs fix it.”

Mum rolled her eyes, but tipped her bottle at Dad.

Dad’s countenance changed immediately as he switched to storyteller mode—Harry’s favorite version of his father. His father leaned back in his chair, relaxing, and draped an arm over the back of Harry’s; the shameful grimace was gone, replaced with another easy grin. Harry settled in for what was sure to be a good story.

“The Marauder’s Map, Harry, Mate, my son, Mini-Marauder-In-Training, was the second-greatest achievement of our school days, and the glory of sixth year—”

“What was the first?” Harry asked, interrupting.

His dad winced, looked genuinely apologetic. “Ah. Would tell you, but I could, Mate. You’re a bit young, yet.”

“Soon, Sprong.” Padfoot promised, and Wormy and Moony nodded reassuringly.

“Swear?”

“Solemnly,” all four men replied, hands to hearts, without a trace of jest. Harry was satisfied, and nodded at his dad to continue. His mother did her best to hide her grin in her drink.

“Right, so, fourth year. Was it fourth year, lads?” His uncles all nodded. “Well, fourth year, we got into a spot of bother with Filch. Nothing unusual there, but we found a map in a drawer in his office. It was—”

“Inadequate,” Uncle Sirius said.

“And that’s being generous, Mate,” his dad continued. “But the idea struck us, , then, about a map. A proper map, of Hogwarts. Of course, as with all good things, the idea—”

“—was the easy part,” Harry said—that was one of his dad’s trademark expressions.

“Exactly. We spent—a swotty amount of time in the library, between you and me—looking up charms. Took us a year and a half, to properly map every nook, secret passageway, staircase, hidden door. Your Uncle Wormtail was— _uniquely_ qualified—to help out in that respect. Indispensable to the entire project, really. It took, what?” He glanced at Uncle Remus. “Eight revisions, I think, to get the schematics right?”

“Nine,” Uncle Remus supplied.

“Nine revisions, then.”

Harry felt…cheated. This was just a map of the school? “What was so great about that, though? Anyone could make a _map_.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Mate, if you’ll stop interrupting,” his dad said, peering down over his glasses. But he ruffed Harry’s hair, and grinned, and Harry batted his hand away. “The map, in the end, was comprehensive—every corner of the Hogwarts grounds. The most comprehensive map that had ever been made, if I’m correct. Useful, but as you said, _anyone_ could make a map. So, we spent another several months placing a charm to track everyone’s movements.”

“Track them?”

“Their whereabouts. Showed the precise location of whoever was on the grounds, whether or _not_ they were students, or staff, or wearing an Invisibility Cloak. Dead useful for keeping away from teachers, you see. We used it for shenanigans, the occasional bout of mischief, nothing serious,” his father said, his self-satisfied grin betraying the lie. “Oi! You’ll like this—we charmed it to hurl out insults, should it fall into enemy hands.”

That—now _that_ was something. A world of possibilities opened up for Harry. He could—go to Hogsmeade. The kitchens. The Pitch, and nick a broomstick from the shed to have a late-night fly. One thing bothered him.

“Say it _did_ fall into enemy hands?” he asked. “Did it have a password? You wouldn’t leave a Map like that out all the time. How’d you turn it on and off? And how’d you fit it all on one piece of paper?”

“See, Prongs,” Uncle Sirius said, a look of fierce pride on his face. “You’re raising the boy properly after all.”

James patted Harry on the head. “That’s the kind of thinking you need, son. To your first question, we used ‘I solemnly swear I am up to no good’ to reveal the map and ‘Mischief Managed’ to wipe it clean. And to your second— _magic._ ”

He’d heard those phrases his entire life, and had never known where they’d come from. He’d never even thought to ask. It was cert: this Map would make him the coolest kid in the Gryffindor first years’ dormitory.

“Aren’t you lot going to do the whole bit?” his mum asked.

His father backtracked, ears turning pink. “Now, Lil, I’m not that’s _entirely_ necessary.”

“Oh, no,” she said sweetly. “I think it is. You’ve been waxing poetic like she’s our bloody ex-girlfriend. And you lot subjected me to the entire thing when we were young. Harry’ll get a kick out of it.”

His father exchanged glance with his uncles, and they all looked at Harry; he was watching them, eager.

They put their hands over their hearts.

“Messrs,” they began in unison.

“Moony.”

“Wormtail.”

“Padfoot.”

“ _And_ Prongs.”

And chorused, growing steadier with each word, “Purveyors to Aids of Magical Mischief-Makers, are proud to present: The Marauder’s Map!”

The Marauders leaned forward and clinked their glasses together. Part of the ritual, apparently. He was going to Hogwarts, and he wanted a group of friends exactly like this. He and Ron would be the start, obviously, but they’d recruit more. They couldn’t call themselves the Marauders, but they’d think of _something_.

Dad looked so relaxed in that moment that Harry decided it’d be criminal not to press his advantage.

“Can I have it then, Dad?”

The Marauders’ smiles wiped off their faces, much like Harry imagined the Map would wipe clean. His dad’s expression turned sour.

“Well, son, it fell into enemy hands, seventh year. _Filch_.” He said “Filch’ like a curse word, and even Mum wrinkled her nose. “You can blame your Uncle Padfoot for squandering your Marauder inheritance, all for a Ravenclaw with a ni—”

But Harry didn’t get to hear the rest, because his mum cleared her throat menacingly, cutting his dad off. Harry felt hollowed out, and he felt a bit silly for feeling so. The loss of something he’d never had and that he only learned about ten minutes ago shouldn’t feel so heavy, but he couldn’t help it.

He yawned widely, then, and Mum shooed him off to bed, against his Uncles’ strong objections. Harry didn’t object—he’d just realized exactly how tired he was, and headed off to bed.

It was tomorrow already, and he was going to Hogwarts in _ten_ hours.

Still, that Map would’ve been _nice_.

* * *

Next morning, they arrived an hour early at Harry’s insistence.

Because his parents knew everyone and were compulsive, serial chatters, a real issue, when they needed to get somewhere quickly. True to form, they stopped every few feet to chat with someone new, catch up, exchange handshakes. He was too excited to feel properly tired, drinking in the platform, and the occasional familiar face. His sisters chased each other through the station. Harry kept piss-poor watch over them and kept a lookout for Ron.

Quarter till, and the Weasleys came rushing through the barrier.

Ten till, and Dad realized he’d never loaded Harry’s trunk. He disappeared onto the train to load both boys’ trunks into a compartment.

Harry was subjected to one final, bone-crushing hug from his mum. He was relieved—extremely relieved—that she wasn’t crying, but she seemed reluctant to let him go.

At her insistence, he gave each of his wailing sisters, who suddenly realized he was getting on the train, and they were not, a sympathetic pat on the back.

Five till, and his dad returned. Harry subjected _him_ to one final, bone-crushing hug. And his dad whispered, so no one could hear, “I slipped the Cloak into your trunk as compensation, yeah? Maybe can use it and try to get that Map back from Filch.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The lads and I agreed—you get the Map, we’ll tell you the whole story.”

“About the crowning achievement?”

“The whole bit. Now off you go—I daresay Ron’s waiting to hear all about it.”

Harry grinned widely, high-fived his father, and scrambled aboard the train.”

* * *

 “I don’t understand,” Ron said. “Where in the bloody hell could the Map have _gone_?

“Keep quiet,” Harry said in a hiss worthy of Hermione. The Common Room had thinned, but he didn’t want to be overhead.  

She’d been utterly unimpressed with their antics, said it had served them right, and stormed off to bed. Denied them the Transfiguration answers, and everything.

“Do you think he chucked it?” Ron asked in an undertone.

“Nah, Padfoot—Uncle Sirius—reckoned Filch knew what it was.”

Two and a half years, he and Ron had spent trying to get in, each scraping a handful of detentions for the effort. Nothing to his father, of course, but a respectable showing, given that Hermione was less inclined to break the rules than his father’s friends had been.

They’d gotten into trouble for other things, too—that duel with Malfoy, the car, but his singular focus had been Filch’s office. Even with the Cloak, he hadn’t properly managed it before last night.

The diversion had been by any other standard a complete success, a thing of beauty. Manure from Greenhouse 4—he’d have to thank Mum for that particular bit of inspiration—a firework he’d bartered from George, and three Dungbombs, had been sufficient to lure Filch away.

But now, he and Ron were trying to sort out their sorely neglected homework. He didn’t have anything for Christmas for his Dad, and Hermione wasn’t speaking to them. It was all for nothing, because the Map hadn’t been there.

“Maybe someone else got it, then. From his office.”

The unpleasant possibility had occurred to Harry, too. He ruffed his hair.

“If that’s the case,” he said. “There’s nothing for it.”

They’d spent so much effort into reconnaissance, diversions—to _getting in_ —that Harry had never even entertained the possibility that the Map _wouldn’t_ be there.

“It’ll be all right, mate,” said Ron bracingly. “We can always try again. Maybe we missed a spot.”

“Let’s not think about it, all right? We’ve got to finish this essay or Snape’ll skin us alive.”

* * *

Harry, still glum the next morning, and exhausted from his late night homework session, barely muddled his way through early practice. Oliver hadn’t been best pleased with his performance, advised him to train long and hard over the holidays.

Harry lingered, afterward, in no hurry to return to Ron’s speculations, or Hermione’s glares.

“Psst—Harry!”

The twins had lingered, too. They motioned for him, and he followed them to the far bench.

“We’ve come to give you a bit of cheer this morning, Harry,” Fred said, giving Harry a mysterious wink.

“Early Christmas present, if you will,” George explained. “We didn’t mean to overhear you last night, but these things happen.”

“How?” Harry wanted to know. They’d been on the other side of the common room.

“Trade secret, Harry,” Fred said, and Harry knew he’d get nothing more.

“We thought we heard you mention the name Padfoot,” George said gravely. It wasn’t a question. “Were you, perhaps, seeking something specific from Filch’s office last night?”

With that, Fred spread a large, blank piece of parchment on the bench. Harry suspected a prank—it wouldn’t be their first, would it? On the other hand, if anyone _had_ nicked it from Filch, he’d wager it would be Fred and George.

Well, _in for a Knut_ , as Bathilda would say.

“Padfoot’s my uncle,” Harry explained. The twins exchanged a significant look.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Fred asked.

“Yes,” Harry said, his heart racing. “How did you get it?”

“We—got into a spot of bother, with Filch,” George said. “A Dungbomb, you see.”

Harry was suddenly reminded of his father three years before, and started to grin.

“—and we couldn’t help but noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked _Confiscated and Highly Dangerous_ ,” Fred said.

“Don’t tell me—”Harry said.

“Well, what would you’ve done?” Fred asked. “Actually, I know what you would’ve done, because you did it last night. Diversion. Drawer.”

Harry nodded. “How’d you get it to work?”

“Tricky business,” George said, “but she helped us along.”

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

Harry didn’t doubt it, knowing what it was.

“Go on, then,” George said.

Harry took out is wand, anticipation humming pleasantly in his veins. He lightly tapped the center of the parchment and said, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

It was, if possible, cooler than he’d spent the last three years imagining: the map erupted to life, ink spiraling from the center, crisscrossing, until a mini Hogwarts appeared, every nook, cranny, and secret passage, just as they’d said. Harry wondered that it only took them nine revisions. The same words his father and uncles had recited spread across the top in green. Harry laughed. They were noble idiots, the Marauders, and Harry had never been prouder of them.

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” George said. “We owe them so much.”

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers,” Fred added.

“Prongs is my dad,” Harry explained, grinning at them.

“Your dad—glasses, hair, horrible jokes—is Prongs?” Fred asked. “The Prongs?”

Harry nodded.

“Nothing for it, then,” said Fred, clapping Harry on the back. “It’s a wrench, giving it to you, but we decided, after last night, we couldn’t rightfully keep it.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” George said.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Harry started, but Fred cut him off.

“It’s the decent thing to do, Mate. Just remember us, should you ever win a load of prize money, yeah?”

Harry laughed. “I will.”

“Off we go, Fred,” George said, “our kippers are waiting.”

“See you at Christmas,” Fred called over his shoulder. “Mum will want to give you your sweater in person, we reckon.”

Harry waved goodbye to the twins, and scanned the map, trying to locate Ron’s dot. Even Hermione would have to forgive them when she saw it.

He couldn’t wait to see the look on his father’s face, when he presented the map. He’d get to hear the full Marauder story—the bits they’d kept out, until he’d earned them. Technically, yes, he’d been _given_ the Map, but he suspected they’d be forgiving of the details, once it was spread out before them.

Christmas was going to be _excellent_.


End file.
